


holy grounds

by plantgirl



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Feelings Realization, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Found Family, Gods & Goddesses, Heavy Plot, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lots of Tea, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth Being My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth Has Emotions, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Prophetic Dreams, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tea, World Exploration, but like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-08-19 08:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantgirl/pseuds/plantgirl
Summary: The summers in Almyra are too hot and dry and still here he is with people he considers family, mending each other's hearts and minds after the war is finally over.Major spoilers for pre- & post-timeskip Golden Deer route.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I initially wrote this as an excuse to make up a whole culture for Almyra and somewhere along the lines I stumbled upon a plot that wormed its way into the story and now we have this. It turns out to actually be a pretty plot-driven story instead of just focusing on the developement of relationships a little later on, so I hope you are patient enough with me to get to that part!  
But I hope you enjoy it anyways!

Overwhelming heat hangs in the air, laying heavy upon Byleth's body. A sheen of sweat is clinging to his porcelain skin and his tongue feels like sandpaper in his dry mouth. He is slumped against an old, gnarly tree with his fingers threading through the dead grass at its roots, watching Claude and Cyril spar in the merciless summer heat. 

The tree's dark, leathery leaves are rustling in the faint breeze that brushes past them, but if it were not for the sound Byleth would have guessed that there was no wind at all. Why he has agreed to travel to Almyra with Claude and Cyril he has no idea - he wishes he had gone to visit Rhodos Coast with Flayn and Seteth, for he would have the sandy beach underneath his feet and a salty breeze blowing through his hair, the complete opposite of what he has in Almyra.

Claude has just knocked Cyril off his feet, leaving the younger laying on his back, breathing heavily. Byleth makes a mental note to pull Cyril aside some time and tell him some tricks to beat Claude more easily, such as stepping a tad too close to him to leave him confused and mostly defenseless which is especially useful for Cyril since he knows how to wield an axe, as opposed to Claude who rather relies on his trusted bow and arrow.

Claude helps Cyril up a moment later before he walks over to Byleth while the younger dusts off his clothes - another thing Byleth finds rather annoying; due to the short rain season in Almyra the ground is very dry and even cracks open at times, leaving it dusty and very uncomfortable to rest on. 

"Do you want to spar, too?", Claude asks, a small laugh swaying with his words. Byleth would not refuse the offer if it were not for the heat; he has learned that he is very sensitive to the Almyran sun and the rationed water they have for their travels strains him, so he shakes his head lightly. This leaves Claude to hesitate for a second before he musters his friend thoroughly - surely he must have noticed the blotches of red littering Byleth's skin or the way his light hair sticks to his forehead.

The young man steps closer and squats down next to Byleth, "Are you alright, my friend?" His voice is laced thick with worry as he brings a hand to Byleth's forehead to brush away his sweaty bangs, "You seem ill."

Byleth smiles weakly, "It's just the heat. Do not worry."

Claude nods and stands up again to reach for something up in the tree. Byleth wonders what he is doing - and Cyril looks confused, too. 

He pulls a small fruit from between the tree's thick branches and leaves - it is barely half the size of Claude's palm and ochre in color - and hands it to Byleth.

"That is an Almyran fig," he explains, "It helps with the heat."

Byleth eyes it critically - it lays heavy in his palm and it looks firm to the touch. It does not have a smell, either, so he is not completely sure what to make of it. He experimentally takes a bite. It tastes sweet, somewhat like honey, and grainy - not exactly what he knows figs to taste like, but it is nice. The fruit's flesh is a striking pink colour in contrast to its peel and drips all over Byleth's fingers, sticking to his skin. His mouth is less dry now and he feels somewhat refreshed.

Claude grins, "Better?"

Byleth nods; he is still sweating - the fruit cannot change the weather after all - but his body seems more at ease with the heat. He smiles a little which gains him a bright smile from Claude in return. He leans over Byleth and presses his lips to his hair - Byleth feels strange, somewhat, but Claude has been doing this since they first met after he woke up from his five year slumber and he is not entirely sure what it means.

Cyril does not seem bothered by the gesture, though, so he supposes it is something rather normal. He has no idea about intimacy between friends, let alone lovers - it had always been him and Jeralt, ever since he was little. Mercenaries would accompany them, but they were always older than Byleth and he now realizes what Garreg Mach had actually offered him; he has gained friends of which some he now even considers family, something he never had before. Rhea's selfish actions to bring back her mother have brought something positive into his life amidst all the chaos it has caused, but he is thankful to have met Claude and Cyril and the rest of the Golden Deer house.

Claude is picking some more fruits from the tree for the three of them - he is the tallest of them, afterall - and the three of them settle to eat them together in the shade of the old tree. It is nice to just enjoy each other's company without having to fear that it might be their last meal together or the last conversation they might have, although the weight of the war still clings to their bones and haunts them when they are most vulnerable.

"My father taught me about these when I was younger," Claude tells them while they are eating, "We would often train together in the fields outside the walls of Leydier, and you cannot carry enough water to last you a whole afternoon in this heat."

Leydier - Almyra's capital - is where they are currently traveling to; Claude has business to attend to with his father and invited Byleth to come with him, and Cyril has finally build up enough courage to return to the place he was born after being pushed by Ignatz to embrace his heritage. The two of them have been spending an awful lot of time together, Byleth now notices, pleased at the thought of Cyril finally having opened up to someone other than himself, especially after having come to terms with the fact that there is no future for him if he continues to stay at the monastery. Seteth has assured the boy several times that Rhea will be fine without him and that he should pursue his dreams instead of wasting his life away inside the walls of Garreg Mach.

"I never knew they existed. But then again, I grew up in the north where it is a little cooler than here," Cyril comments while happily devouring fruit after fruit.

In the distance the sun begins to set, colouring the sky in warm orange and pink tones and making it almost look like it is burning above their heads. Byleth has not taken the time to watch the sunset in ages, probably not since their days in the academy when he had nothing more to worry about than preparing next week's lesson plan and keeping up with his students' birthdays.

"It is time we return to our camp," Claude remarks with a look at the sky and Byleth raises to his feet, a hint of disappointment spreading in his mind - he would have loved to stay a little longer and watch the sunset but Claude is right. They collect their belongings and begin walking north, the direction their makeshift camp is located in a small, scarcely wooded area downhill.

Their camp is nothing more than three miserable, worn-down tents left from the war squeezed between the mostly leafless trees with a small fire pit in the middle.

Cyril makes it his task to start the fire - Byleth has offered to light it with a simple spell multiple times but Cyril keeps declining his offers, explaining that he needs something to do to not feel completely useless over and over again - while Byleth helps Claude put away the practice weapons they used earlier. They are, along with the other weapons they carry with them in case they were in dire need of defending themselves, stored in the back of Claude's tent, shielded from suspicious eyes.

When they return to the fireplace, Cyril still is trying his best to start the fire and they settle down next to him. It is the first evening they spend in the same place as the night before and the first evening they sit together around the fire without being too exhausted to even talk. Byleth has a question burning on his tongue since they began their travels and he thinks that now might be the best moment to ask it before they all retire to their tents.

"Say," Byleth begins, carefully, "How come in every village we have been so far, there is at least one shrine, and most of them to different gods?"

He has observed it in the several different villages they have passed through - there is a shrine, often in the middle of the village, dedicated to one or multiple different deities, and no two shrines are the same. They are decorated so vastly different that at first, Byleth did not even see a connection until he read the words 'shrine' carved into wooden plates above the entrances. It is foreign to him because back in Fódlan most people believe in Sothis and there are churches dedicated to her in almost every corner of the now united land that look mostly the same and have the same purpose.

Cyril looks up from the fire he is trying to start, the weak light of the ember reflecting in his sharp eyes. He looks to Claude as if to ask what on earth Byleth is talking about - he seems to not have noticed, Byleth thinks, it must be something so casual that he, unbeknownst to himself, chooses to ignore it.

Claude's gaze captures Byleth's eyes and his voice has somewhat of a rough edge to it when he speaks, "Almyra has a religion that is much different to that of Fódlan. Here people worship multiple gods - the god of the sun, the god of the moon, the god of war, and so on. Most villages have their own patron deity, too - that is why there are so many different shrines to different gods. I just don't think relying on gods to help fix something is necessary - I do not need a god to make my life easier."

Cyril nods silently, but Byleth thinks that he has different reasons not to be religious - first and foremost that he never got to experience Almyran culture fully, but the concept of a single goddess os too foreign to him at the same time.

"You said there exists a god of war amongst the deities protecting Almyra," Byleth then says, "So wouldn't it be of use if you prayed to them? In a war such as the one we have just fought, praying to a god of war might be helpful."

Claude laughs at that, a warm, heartfelt laugh, "But you are not even religious yourself, my friend, and that even though you are apparently a vessel to Sothis herself. Or at least, that is what Rhea has tried to make of you."

He is right - Byleth is not overly spiritual - he knows that Sothis has lived inside of him (and she still does, at least he so believes, because what else could have been the reason he survived those five years he had spent in a slumber?) and he will never deny her existence; he knows that, after what he has learned, Sothis blessed her people to live for millenia - he sometimes wonders if he now, too, will only find death if he were to succumb to grave injuries or if he still has the lifespan of a normal human (and he wishes the latter, for he could not live with the grief of losing his friends, his family, and he still has no idea how Seteth and Flayn manage to live in such a world where all their friendships are limited and doomed from the beginning). But still, he does not pray to the goddess or any other deities - what for? 

"To come back to your question," Claude continues, "If you need to pray to a god of war - for whatever reason he might exist - what does that say of you? What does it say of the god? If your only intent is war, if you devote yourself to it so that you need to have a god for it, doesn't that mean you care more about the act of fighting, killing, slaughtering, than about settling whatever started the war in the first place? I think that is no way to think of deliberately taking another person's life, not if you have to pray to a god for you to be better at it than your opponent."

Byleth nods thoughtfully. He remembers a conversation he had with Claude once - years ago when they were still at Garreg Mach, months before it was destroyed and the war began - when the young man had come to visit him in his chambers after a particularly draining battle. It had not been too difficult of a fight - they had to defend a small village near Kupala where the mountains of Fódlan's Throat bleed into the lush greens of the Edmund territory against some brutes from Almyra who wanted to rid the village of their precious metals - but it had been bloody, the intruders did not budge and would rather die than return home without anything to bring back, and Claude had marched ahead under Byleth's instructions, clearing the way with his bow and arrow for his friends to follow and clear up the remaining intruders hidden between the scarce trees and steep mountain ridge. He had asked Byleth that night how to deal with the guilt of killing, said he felt the hot, deep red blood sticking to the tips of his fingers and his bow and could not wash it off no matter how hard he scrubbed them. And it now makes sense to Byleth why Claude detestes the dependance on gods - those men and women back there had probably prayed to their god of war, asking to return home to their family with ways to keep them above water, but had failed miserably, and no god had helped them in any way.

"Actually," Cyril chirps up, the fire now burning bright, spewing sparks into the warm summer night, "the Almyran god of war is a goddess. Her name is Amis and-" He stops himself, flinching under the curious eyes of both Claude and Byleth, then starts again after composing himself, "-her name is Amis. She is not just the goddess of battles and victory but also the goddess of hope. My parents prayed to her before they..."

The unsaid words hang heavy in the air and oh, now Byleth understands - it is not Cyril's lack of experience with Almyran culture but the feeling of betrayal that makes him resent the thought of religion. There are worried glances thrown by Claude to Cyril and then back to Byleth, swimming in concern and pity.

Uncomfortable silence hangs between them for a while before Cyril excuses himself to go to his tent to sleep - the day has been exhausting and he needs sleep desperately.

"But wake me up once the last of you goes to bed so I can guard the camp," he says before disappearing into his tent, leaving Claude and Byleth on their own.


	2. Chapter 2

Byleth wakes up with a slightly buzzing headache - the heat really must be getting to him. He rolls over with a small huff so he is laying on his back and staring at the dirty yellow fabric of the tent above him. He does not know what time it is, but judging by the fact that he can see everything rather clearly he supposes the sun has already risen. It takes him a few moments to discard the thin cotton sheet and acknowledge the fact that even if it were still too early in the morning, sleep would not find him again no matter how hard he tried. He and Claude stayed up not too much longer after Cyril went to bed - the topic of conversation was not suited to be continued between just the two of them (Byleth feared that Claude might come to talk more about Rhea and that there was a goddess sleeping inside of him) and the awkward silence left behind by Cyril got too much to bear after a while and they agreed that sleep would be best for them (they did not wake Cyril for there was no need to guard their camp, not when they were in the middle of nowhere).

He rubs the remainder of sleep out of his eyes and crawls out of the tent. The air outside is still moderately cool compared to how hot it was the day before and looking up to the sky Byleth finds that there even are a few white, fluffy clouds chasing along the bright blue.

Cyril is already awake, perched on the ground by the burnt-down fire. He is sitting with his back to Byleth, poking around in the left over ashes with a long stick. His practice bow - the one that he got from Shamir way back when he became her apprentice, with the small carvings near the handle - lays next to him on the ground, the old, bristly bowstring replaced with a smooth one and the wood glowing from the wax he must have just polished it with (Byleth knows that it means a lot to Cyril, especially now that Shamir has returned to Dagda to help build up the ruins the land had been left in). He seems not to have noticed Byleth yet as he his humming something - very quietly, as if he were afraid somebody might hear him - and Byleth stays still to listen for a short while. It sounds unfamiliar and some parts are off-key but he enjoys it nonetheless, happy to see Cyril so carefree once in a while without him fussing about everything, trying to be perfect for everyone. It suits him well, this rare moment of youthfulness shining through his thick facade of maturity - Byleth knows that Cyril is still a young child at heart who never actually got to experience being a kid, who had to grow up too quickly after losing his parents.

Cyril shifts to reach for his bow, his eyes catching sight of Byleth in the process. He stops humming and turns to look at him directly, "Oh, prof- ah, Byleth. I still cannot get used to calling you by your name, I apologize." A small smile plays on his lips as he grabs the bow and stands up, walking over to Byleth, "I was about to go hunting. The sun stands high already, I suppose it will be noon soon. You should wake Claude so the two of you can leave for the village."

Byleth nods and strides over to Claude's dusty brown tent (he insisted on taking the one with the most holes and slashes - Byleth had offered to switch but Claude still insisted he would be fine, it was nothing more than a tent after all), crushing dry leaves and small sticks under his bare feet, and pushes the fabric aside to enter.

Claude is sitting on his blanket, a letter clutched in his hands. The paper is yellowed and the writing of the lines he is tracing with his fingers is already smudged. He looks up when he hears Byleth enter, "Ah, my friend, have you come to wake me?"

Byleth nods, "It is almost noon. The village will not wait for us to arrive."

Claude huffs out a laugh, "That rings true. You and I shall get dressed then as I am not willed to travel in my sleeping garments." He raises from the ground and kicks the blanket with his feet so it is ruffled up in one pile, then stalks over to where his clothes hang on one of the tent posts.

Byleth raises an eyebrow at that but cannot hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"You want to keep standing there and watch me undress?", Claude teases, making Byleth shake his head violently and retreat outside with cheeks hot from embarrassment.

Cyril is already gone and the bow has disappeared from where it laid on the ground as well as Claude's old leather quiver. Byleth instead finds two of their clay cups filled with tea sat carefully on a small piece of cloth that Cyril must have brewed when he was still asleep. He reaches for one of them and takes a long sip - it is already cold but its strong and fruity flavor lulls him into a moment of bliss (tea has the tendency to do that to him, he is not sure why). It must be the blend Byleth purchased shortly before they crossed the mountains of Fódlan's throat and stayed at the Goneril fortress - Hilda recommended it to him, and he could just not not try it.

After finishing it up he rinses the cup with a little water from the big jug they keep hidden in the shadows so it does not overheat and evaporate into thin air, then slips back into his own tent to dress himself. He has long abandoned his heavy coat and dark armor in Almyra's heat - they were useful for their hike through the mountains where the cold would nag at their bones and colour their cheeks red, but now they are more torturous to wear than anything - and has traded them for a simple, short-sleeved blouse made of linen and short woolen trousers all held together by a leather belt (Claude does not want the three of them to seem suspicious; the Almyrans may think them to have more sinister motives than they actually have, as the nation has not fully made peace with Fódlan yet).

Fully dressed he emerges from the yellow of his tent to see Claude sprawled on the ground, the cup meant for him tipped over onto the cloth. The man tears his eyes from the sky to look at Byleth and sits up, a wide grin drawn onto his face.

"Claude," Byeth begins, his own face wearing less of a happy expression at the sight of the fallen over cup, "You spilled your tea."

The other throws him a questioning glance, then notices the cup as well, "Oh, that," he gets up and retrieves it from the ground, "I already drank it. It must have tipped over when I laid down and accidentally hit it with my feet."

The cup is placed into the linen pouch that holds the small amount of dishes they carry around with them and Byleth grimaces - it must still have traces of tea leaves sticking to it - but Claude shakes his head, "I will clean it once we get back, I promise. But we do not have more time to waste. As you said, the village will not wait for us." He then tosses Byleth a small bundle - a brown leather sheath with a dagger, a gift he had once received from his father when he was still a mere child.

"We cannot go completely unarmed," he explains and tugs the overflowing fabric of his own tunic aside to reveal a short anelace in a sheath dangling from his own belt. Byleth nods and they set off to the nearby village.

Their way leads them out of the scarce woods their camp is set up in over hills covered in yellow, dead grass and along tiny pathways that are barely wide enough for a horse. The sun climbs higher and higher on the way to its zenith as noon creeps closer and finally turns into afternoon when the sun passes its highest point and the shadows once again grow longer. In the distance the first small huts become visible between the golden hills of wheat fields they are now walking along.

"We only need to walk past one more hill, my friend, and then we will reach Mynas," Claude says and walks ahead, his steps feathery with excitement. Byleth cannot grasp what exactly ought to be so special about this tiny village that has Claude so excited (is it not but a small village of farmers?). He quickens his step nonetheless to keep up with Claude.

They pass the first small farm that lays atop a hill - a small wooden cottage with greens growing on its roof (more greens than grow anywhere around here, Byleth notices and wonders how that could be) and yellowed grassland around it that is inhabited by different kinds of cattle, sheeps and cows and chickens.

The pathway beneath their feet slowly turns from sand to cobble and then they stand in the center of the village surrounded by small houses made of wood painted red with roofs made of thatch. A few display tables are set up on the square, operated by farmers selling all kinds of fruits and vegetables and animal produce.

While Claude already strides away to an elderly man who sells different kinds of milk and butter, a wide, angled gate painted in the same shade of red as the houses around it catches Byleth's attention. He slowly approaches it until he sees a small wooden plate propped up against the gate on the ground - Shrine of the Innocent. He knows that he should not enter it - it is not his religion, not his place to call home and he does not intend to pray to any deity this shrine is consecrated to - yet he feels drawn to it, as if something were to pull him from inside of his chest to the shrine. There is no use fighting it, he knows, so he obliges and sets his feet through the gate.

He follows the narrow corridor that cuts further ahead, the walls and ceiling decorated with garlands made of wooden beads and golden bells. It takes a while to reach the end of the corridor - it opens up into a big, hexagonal hall lit up by a big candelabra made of gold hanging from the ceiling. The walls are painted with pictures that seem to be scenes of a story - one shows a little girl perched on a man's lap, her small hands reaching for the man's crown made of plants and feathers; in the next her eyes are bound by a black piece of cloth while a thick rope is tied around her wrists and ankles; then a man, dark scruffy hair covering his face that bears a spiteful grin, holds a knife to the girl's throat, drawing blood from her skin; her body, bleeding out in a ditch, covered by plants and dirt; a figure, clothed in black silken garments, holds their pale bony hand out towards the girl who is now omitted by a strange glow; lastly, the little girl glowing golden, ascending into the skies - it must be the story of the goddess the shrine is devoted to.

"The story of Amis, the Almyran goddess of battle."

Byleth turns his head in shock - he did not notice anybody else being in the room, yet someone clearly just spoke to him.

Long and messy turquoise hair is the first thing he notices, followed by pointy ears and a golden headdress - Sothis is standing next to him, her eyes glued to the painted wall in front of her (the one where the girl ascends to the skies, and suddenly Byleth notices the similarities between the two of them). Byleth must be dreaming, surely, or maybe only hallucinating. Sothis cannot be standing next to him, she became one with him five years ago to save them both from the vast nothingness they had been sent to by Solon.

"Why are you staring at me like this?", she asks sharply. The golden chains that wrap around her small body clatter at her movement as she turns to look at him. "Things are changing," she then whispers ominously, her voice suddenly a few octaves deeper with a hollow ring to it, and with the blink of an eye she is gone again, the space she just took in now nothing more than plain air.

Byleth turns around, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of her presence, but there is nothing besides an altar in the middle underneath the candelabra - it is only him. With a sigh he steps away from the painted walls and towards the altar. It is red with complex, seemingly traditional patterns in blues and yellows and everything in between painted onto it. On top of it lays a sheep's coat, several animal bones laid onto it and a statue placed onto it.

Byleth musters the statue - it looks like the little girl in the pictures, somewhat similar to Sothis in the way that she is small and looks so youthful. Her skin is painted in the same tan colour as both Claude and Cyril with the same dark hair which is braided into two thick braids that end in colorfully patterned hoops. A necklace lays around her neck with multiple smaller bones and two seperate jaw bones of what looks like a deer dangling from it. Differently colored strips of fabric shield her forehead and a sheep's coat is thrown over her figure with horns stemming from it at her head. Her eyes are painted on in a bloody orange that reminds him of the sunsets he used to watch at Garreg Mach with Ignatz, who would often paint them - not every orange is the same orange, he had once explained to Byleth, and this shade exactly is called tangerine, mixed with a little more red than yellow paint - and Byleth thinks that Ignatz would appreciate this work of art, maybe he should recommend him to start painting statues at one point, too.

It is hard to believe that this is supposed to be Amis because should she not look more frightening as the goddess of war, with bloodied weapons and hunger for death in her eyes? Byleth thought of her as a strong warrior when he first heard of her, not an innocent little kid.

The sudden sound of footsteps startles him and then there is a familiar voice calling out for him.

"There you are, my friend. I thought I lost you there. I almost had a heart attack when I noticed you were gone!", it is Claude, carrying a basket of what appears to be different kinds of vegetables and a loaf of dark bread.

Byleth sighs in relief, "I apologize for my sudden disappearance. I just- I felt somewhat drawn to this place. I should have told you."

"It is alright, I assure you. Just, please, don't disappear like this again. Now let us finish our shopping and return to Cyril."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.  
I'm sorry I took so long to update this, school started again and I'm already so stressed out about it. Plus, instead of writing this, I started like ten new stories and now have a very cluttered wip folder.  
This chapter uses a big part of my other fic 'everything is shattering (and it's my mistake)'. If it sounds familiar, you know why. I initially wrote the scene for this fic but then had trouble implementing it so I wrote it into its own story. But now it is in here as well because I finally figured out how it would fit in here.

The sky is already turning orange when Byleth and Claude reach their camp. Cyril is roasting some fish above the already lit fireplace and Byleth plops down next to him. Claude sets down the basket with their shopping on the ground and rummages through it before taking out the loaf of bread he bought.

Cyril sighs, "Finally something normal to eat. I am so tired of dried meat and fish."

Claude laughs, "You could have also waited until we are in Synnir, they have some great noodle dishes there. Maybe we can even get a horse there so we do not need to carry all our stuff around all the way to Leydier."

"I do not mind carrying it around, though. It is the least I can do to thank you for taking me with you."

There it is again - Cyril thinking he has to work to repay an imaginary debt he owes them. Byleth lets out a low groan at that thought and runs a hand over is face in an attempt to get rid of the sweat clinging to his skin.

"I harvested more figs," Cyril offers but Byleth shakes his head, "Thank you , Cyril, but no. I need some food and then I am going straight to sleep. I'm really tired."

In truth Byleth wants some time alone so he can think about what happened today - the fact that he saw Sothis does not sit easy with him. Is he now finally going completely insane, or was Sothis really there with him? But how would she know about Almyran gods? The longer he thinks about it, the more questions he has. But now is not the time; he must concentrate on the here and now and not make his companions worry.

"Is the fish done already?", he then asks and Cyril nods before handing Byleth one of the fish - they are skewered on wooden sticks and pickled with salt to conserve them for their travels (Ignatz and Raphael had given them that tip before they began their travels and stopped by their shared shop near Fhirdiad - it had taken them there after the war, Ignatz for the landscape that differs so greatly from where he had grown up and now serves as new motives for his paintings, Raphael for Maya who fell madly in love with a young noble that lives in the former kingdom's capital - to stock up on their supplies). But after more than two weeks - the crossing of Fódlan's Throat took them over a week due to the bad weather conditions - of only the two same meals, Byleth too has grown tired of it. They have not had the chance to stop by any town until today (Almyra has a much smaller density of towns than Fódlan, Byleth has noticed), so something as simple as bread has the power to lift all their moods gravely.

Claude cuts the bread with the anelace that was hidden beneath the fabric of his tunic and hands it out to Cyril and Byleth. They both thank him and then they proceed to eat, quiet chatter coming up between them. But Byleth is not completely listening, his mind slips away to Sothis again and again in the middle of the conversation.

"Are you not hungry?", Cyril asks, a little disappointment in his eyes, "Does it not taste good?"

Byleth shakes his head defensively, "No, Cyril, it is fine! I'm just a little preoccupied. I'm sorry."

This causes Claude to worry as well, "What is going on in your mind, friend? Is something wrong?"

Byleth groans, "I'm fine, sorry for making you worry. But I think I'm going to sleep now." He puts away the leftovers of his food and retreats to his tent, his steps heavy with guilt but he cannot concentrate on the conversation with his friends.

Inside his tent he lets himself fall onto his bedding and stares up at the yellow fabric. He lets his thoughts drift off - dark turquoise flashes before his eyes, a throne of cold, dark stone sits in the distance; sights he has missed for a long time, but he knows it is not real, it is just his imagination longing for Sothis to be back, for Sothis to comfort him. But she is still gone - her apparition at the shrine must have been a mere hallucination, although he is not sure how his subconscious knew about Amis and could recognize her story.

The realization that his mind must be going crazy taunts him - what would Claude say if he knew? What would Sothis herself say if she knew? Would they laugh at him? Taunt him? Byleth is growing restless, his fingers trying to hold on to his bedding but he feels like he is falling, falling deep into nothingness without stopping, no ground in sight. It makes him feel nauseous, the constant falling, but eventually he drifts off to sleep, his stomach turning and twisting until he cannot feel anything anymore.

He wakes up drenched in sweat, his whole body shaking in fear. He's had a nightmare, but he does not know what it was about anymore. Small bits and pieces of scenes flash before his eyes - the flash of a sword in blinding sunlight, the decaying carcass of a horse, and dark crows. But it is not those things that leave him terrified of his own mind, he knows. He knows there were worse things haunting his dreams, more death and pain and sorrow, but he is glad he does not remember. He knows he would only go insane if he were to remember everything he dreamed. But he is still scared - he does not want to be alone right now, _cannot_ be alone right now. He crawls from under his thin blanket and out of the tent into the overwhelming darkness of the night.

It takes his eyes a while before they have adjusted to the pitch black - clouds are covering the sky and only a slight, yellow shimmer from behind them indicates where the moon is supposed to be. The fire pit is still slightly glowing with embers that have not completely gone out yet. But there is something else, too - a light coming from a little further away, and it takes Byleth longer than he would like to admit to recognize it as Claude's tent. Maybe he has left a candle burning before falling asleep, Byleth thinks and stumbles in the direction of the faint light.

He carefully pulls aside the tent's fabric and looks inside - Claude is sitting on his bedding, polishing the bow that is laid across his lap. He has shed his tunic and now is only wearing beige linen pants, his upper body bare. He looks up and meets Byleth's eyes, offering him a smile. A few candles are scattered around the tent, casting it in a warm, yellowish glow around him.

"Can you not sleep, my friend?", he asks, putting his bow aside, and pats the blanket next to him, "Sit down with me."

Byleth hesitates - he does not want to rob Claude of his privacy, he deserves to do whatever he wants in the middle of the night, but then again, he is still shaking and sweat still clings to his skin and he would do anything for it to stop. So he enters, slowly, and approaches his friend.

Claude again pats the bedding until he sits down next to him. Byleth musters Claude's torso - it is tan, like the rest of his skin, and quite muscular (more so than he expected - not that he ever thought about it, really - although it makes sense for an archer to have quite a defined upper body - he needs a lot of strength in his arms, does he not?), but something else catches his eye.

Silvery lines slither across Claude's skin, looking like they are almost moving. Swirls of silver wrap around his left biceps and Byleth would call them a work of art did he not know they were left there by a dark magic spell. Another scar, sharp and smooth, runs along his ribcage all the way down to his hips where it ends in a big blotch of red, swollen tissue - it must have been left there just recently (But when? Byleth does not remember any fights they have been in as of recently). Multiple smaller scars, varying between different shades of silver and red, litter the rest of Claude's body - stomach, chest, shoulders, arms, face, everywhere where his tan skin is exposed to the warm candle light.

Byleth's own body feels bare compared to this - not a single scar is visible on his own skin. Something about being a vessel to Sothis leaves him with no single trace of ever having been in a battle, let alone in a war. It makes him feel somewhat guilty; everybody around him is marked by the war, has horrible memories connected to the scars and injuries they received. And Byleth? He has not a single scratch to show, his skin is still smooth as marble with no imperfections, and it feels _wrong_.

His fingers brush along the marks of magic on Claude's arm, tracing the light swirls all over his tan skin. Claude shudders under the touch, but Byleth is not entirely sure if it is because of him or the cold air that blows through the small opening where he entered the tent grazing his overheated skin.

"This happened when we were fighting in Enbarr, right?", he asks quietly, "Hubert must have hit you with something quite powerful."

Claude nods silently. Byleth is afraid he might have said something wrong, but there is something soft in Claude's eyes, something he would not have expected given the topic.

"It is not your fault, you know?", he then says gently and covers Byleth's hand on his arm with his own, drawing small circles onto the back of his hand. It feels reassuring, somehow, but there still is the crushing weight of guilt and shame laying on his shoulders. He directed Claude's moves in that battle - and possibly most of the other battles the remaining scars stem from - and he should have been more careful, should have watched out more. And still, he thinks, these are only the scars Claude bears. What about the others? He almost had Hilda killed multiple times - he had to turn back time again and again to keep her alive, and he was so afraid of not being able to save her after all - and all the others as well. Lysithea is bearing a thick, jagged scar on her collarbone from where he had not been quick enough to cover for her and she got stabbed with a dagger right through her delicate bones, Ignatz's left cheek is scarred from a burn that took ages to heal, Raphael's nose is crooked from where it had been broken several times - all this could have been prevented from happening if Byleth had been more careful, had taken better care of his students, and now he is sitting here under the clear night sky, tracing his errors on Claude's skin while he himself has not a single mark on his skin to make up for it, not a single trace of his mistakes affecting himself.

His hand cramps under Claude's touch, his head swimming with blame and regret for all the pain he has brought over his students. He barely registers the touch on his shoulder, barely registers that Claude has turned to now face him directly and is whispering reassuring words into his hair while carefully pulling him close to his chest - his vision is blurry from the tears welling up in his eyes and his whole body is going numb. It is the first time he is crying since Jeralt's death, and it feels like all the pain he has bottled up over all those years has finally caught up to him and is crashing down over him like a wave, burying him underneath it.

Claude's hand is carding through Byelth's hair while the other is drawing circles into the skin on his back, holding him close. Neither of them say anything for a while and the silence is only broken by Byleth's quiet sobs.

They sit there for what feels like forever; it could have been minutes, hours, days, Byleth does not know. What he does know, though, is the fact that he is not alone, that Claude is by his side, fending off his demons for him.

Eventually the candles are all burned down and the tent is eloped in darkness. It is only then that Claude dares to break the silence between them, "We should sleep. Both of us. We will have an exhausting journey tomorrow if we want to make it to Synnir before nightfall."

Byleth nods. His eyes are burning from all the tears they shed and the need to sleep and Claude's hands have long gone still, settled on his back and his neck.

He decides to stand up and retreat to his own tent to not disturb his friend any longer, but there are Claude's hands again, gripping on his arm, a silent _Please don't leave, I need you here_ swaying with the gesture. So he stays.

Claude pulls him down with him until they lie on top of the blankets, looking at each other through the darkness. Then there is a hand on his cheek, wiping away what is left of the tears he shed.

"Good night, Byleth," Claude whispers, pulling him close with his other arm until there is barely any space left between them, and kisses his forehead.

A fluttery feeling forms in the pit of Byleth's stomach, but he is too tired to think about it any further before he drifts off into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a thread on reddit discussing how Cyril is the worst character in the game, and I honestly felt so offended that I gave him a bigger role in this fic than he originally had which developed my plot. Thank you random reddit users for fueling me with rage to write a whole fanfiction with Cyril as one of the protagonists. You're welcome.


End file.
